Not Really A Believer
by Chiiyo86
Summary: Dean doesn't believe in a higher power, but he believes in his father, in his own strength, and that the only thing worth fighting for is his brother.


A/N:_ Hi, people! Okay, this fic is a bit of an experiment. I first wrote it in French about a year ago, then I decided to translate it in English, just to see if I could do it. You will be judge, I guess:) I wrote it before the end of season 3, so there are only spoilers for the Pilot and "A Very Supernatural Christmas". A big thank you to TraSan, who was kind enough to beta my fic. Without her, the English version would suck a lot. All remaining mistakes are my own. Enjoy!  
_

_**-- Not Really A Believer --**_

_Mommy screams and Dean wakes up with a start. The house is quiet for a moment, and he thinks he must've had a bad dream. Before Sammy were born, he would have been sneaking in his parents' room to be cuddled, but things are different now, he's a big brother and he has to be strong and brave. Daddy said so._

_So, when Dean hears Daddy yelling, 'Mary !' and frantic footsteps climbing the stairs, he understands that something is very wrong._

_He lies in his bed, his heart pounding, for a few long minutes. Silence is heavy, and Dean wishes he could go back to sleep and completely ignore that something awful is happening right now._

_Then Daddy is yelling again, and there is a deafening noise, some kind of 'froumpff'. Here, Dean can't take it anymore. Maybe Daddy needs him. Daddy is really strong, the strongest person Dean knows, but he has been yelling twice now, and Mommy can't be heard anymore. Dean recognizes his baby brother's wails._

_So he gets out of his bed, tightly tucked in by Mommy, and makes his way silently out of his room. It's once he's in the hallway that he sees… _

_---_

Sam leaves on a Sunday. Weather has sucked all morning, then around one p.m buckets of rain start falling from the sky until the middle of the night. Dean can tell, because he hasn't slept at all that night. When Sam leaves he says, '_I'll call'_, and since the two of them have always known how to have conversations of many levels, Dean gets the message behind : '_Don't call me'._

The first few times without Sam fade in a series of indistinct hunts. No one at school anymore, so no need to stay at the same place longer than it takes to find the son of a bitch of the moment and waste it. No strings attached, anywhere, and life is reduced to eating, hunting, sleeping, and going across the country in a car.

Things between Dean and his dad are quite uneasy. John Winchester has never been a funny guy, but has still always possessed some kind of dry sense of humor that appears in his best days. After Sam's departure, it seems that there will be no days of that kind anymore. So much so that it's almost a relief when they have to part and each drive their own car.

But it's also when Dean misses Sam the most. The passenger seat screams his brother's absence. He turns up the music louder and louder until he almost can't bear it but it never quite manages to cover that up. After the Impala was given to Dean as a present for his eighteenth's birthday, they have always traveled together, because Sam and Dad in a car for hours simply never worked_. _ Dean very clearly remembers the day he got the car, a perfect day when his brother and his father had not even one fight. Now it seems unlikely that such a day will ever happen again.

At the end of the first week – _without Sam –_ Dean is lying on his motel bed, staring at the ceiling. He's exhausted, knows his father is too, but they can't stop, because then they would have to think – _about Sam_ – and that is out of the question. But at the same time Dean knows it's not working, not for him at least, because even when he doesn't think about it, even when he's hunting, or hustling pool, getting drunk, fighting, Sam is like a missing limb. Every morning he wakes up having forgotten he isn't there anymore, and every morning, when his memories come back, it's like he was leaving all over again.

So at the end of this first week, when he realizes that Sam and he have never been away from each other that long, he wonders how they can possibly expect him to go on that way for months, or_ years._

He's angry, at Sam, at his dad too – he doesn't like it, not at all. Dad has always been his polar star, his fucking guiding light, but he feels like his faith is wearing out. He doesn't think he's anything without it – and he's angry at himself of course, too. He should have been able to do something before things went too far, past the point of no return, where you just have to live with the damages or quit living. But the only thing he wanted when hearing his father and brother yelling words of anger and hatred to each other was to cover his ears and hum to himself, like those kids whose parents threw dishes at each other's face. _Well done, Winchester._

Then three weeks later, Dean and Dad are dragging themselves to their motel room, having taken care of a twenty-two years old young woman's spirit. She had been murdered by her boyfriend, who hid her body in the Everglades, around Miami. Dad had salted and burned her bones while the young ghost lady went for a dip with Dean in the troubled waters. _To be this good looking is like a curse. Damn, I hate Florida._

So he's soaked to the bones, tired, shivering despite the mild temperature of the Floridian night, and covered in mud. When they reach their room, he finds his bed on sheer instinct and drops himself on it, firmly intended on not moving before, say, the next week. Therefore when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and hears his father's deep voice calling for him, all he can do is to grunt in his best imitation of a sulking teenager – inspired by a fourteen years old Sam – even if he knows that attitude never went well with his dad.

"Dad, I just wanna sleep, leave me alone."

"No, Dean, not yet, get up, damn it."

Dean opens one single eye, because it's the only concession he's ready to make at the moment, even to his father. Life really sucks lately, and all he wants is to sleep, to _sleep_, if it's not too much to ask.

"What ? I don't move unless there's fire."

"And me kicking your ass? Look, I know you're tired, kiddo, but even if I'm ready to take a lot, I got my limits."

_That_ draws his attention, because Dad has never been patience incarnate, so for him to say something like "I'm ready to take a lot", well, it's damn hilarious. Sam would piss himself just hearing that.

"Hm, what you talking about?"

"Son, there's no way I share a room with a living septic tank. Go shower, or you're spending the night in your car."

Dean sniffs himself suspiciously, and glances to his father, in time to notice this minute curve of the mouth that can pass with him for a true laugh, and he understands that there's a joke somewhere. So Dean is bursting out laughing himself, louder and longer than the situation deserves, because for one brief moment, it's like all is all right in his world again.

"Dean…"

"Yes, sir. I'm going."

In the shower he lets the water slowly warm him. He has to admit that it's pretty nice to get rid of the smelly mud. His muscles are painfully unknotting, a warm torpor installs itself, and he has to make a conscious effort not to fall asleep here and now.

_I miss you, Sam. I miss you so fucking much._ _But there's not a lot I can do about it, huh ?_

It's something he has started to do, talking to his little brother like he was here. He thinks it's pathetic, but he's doing it anyway because it's also comforting.

Tonight is not really different from yesterday, or the day before, and still Dean is feeling lighter. He never asked a lot from life, and didn't get a lot either, so a half smile and a joke from his father are enough for him to see things in a better light.

He thinks that maybe, _maybe, _it'll be okay.

---

Dean is awaken by the feeling that something is moving in his bed. He opens an eye; closes it right away. Daylight is aggressive like a fucking spotlight in the face, interrogation from the Gestapo type.

His mouth feels all furry, and his temples are pulsating with pain, all familiar symptoms. _Ha. Hangover. Night must've been hot._ He tries again gingerly to open his eyes, a hand on his forehead to protect himself from daylight. It's at this moment that he realizes he's not alone.

_Well. That's awkward._

Lying besides him is a dark-headed young woman, still asleep, and most probably naked under the sheet. The fact is Dean has not a whole lot experience with waking up near a woman and not knowing even her name.

First, he rarely drinks to the point of being wasted. He likes having fun, sure, but he's also a hunter. He's aware of his limits, and he avoids drinking more than he can bear when he's hunting – which is, most of the time, and more since Sam left. His father let him do whatever he wants in his free time, but he wouldn't like for him to let his guard down in a potentially dangerous situation.

And second, when he's sleeping with a woman, he doesn't stay for the night, and the women he chooses don't especially want him to stay either. It's only about sex, and Dean always make sure both parties agree on that, no matter what other bullshit he'd told them.

The girl is moving a little, and Dean is suddenly freaking out. Does he have the time to leave before she wakes up? If not, what could they talk about? What do you say to a girl you had sex with, when you don't remember her name? And when you don't remember the sex itself? _That was awesome, honey, well, that's probably what I'd say if I could remember a thing._

She opens her eyes, gray eyes, with some metallic quality in them, and winces immediately – she probably feels as shitty as Dean himself. She raises an eyebrow when she notices his presence.

"Oh. Still here?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Coffee?"

"God, yes."

She chuckles, throws her legs out of the bed, and rummages around on the floor until she finds panties and a tee shirt that she puts swiftly on. While she goes and makes coffee, Dean looks around him. There's a kitchenette in the far end of the room, with two hotplates, a sink, an electric kettle and some cupboards above. A desk by the window where the light comes from, with a laptop on it, and the bed in which they slept – that can obviously fold up in a sofa – are the only pieces of furniture, except for the shelf filled with books. Books are everywhere, on the desk, of course, but also on the floor, in half-collapsed piles. A student, maybe, but he doesn't dare to ask, not sure if he's supposed to know.

"Want some sugar with your coffee?"

"What? Huh, no, no sugar, thanks."

She comes up, cups in her hands, she reaches out and gives him one, then sits cross-legged on the bed. They're drinking their coffee in silence, and Dean is wracking his brains to find something to say. Sweet-talk to sleep with a girl, or even to flirt innocently, that he knows, but this kind of situation…If Sam could see him now, he would laugh himself sick.

"By the way, it's Jill."

He blinks, and watches her smile above her coffee. At least, she doesn't seem offended.

"Sorry."

"No problem. You've already largely made up for it, believe me."

He feels himself smiling. Hey, it's always nice to know you did a good job, especially when you don't remember anything. He likes to think he leaves some good memories to women he'll probably never see again.

"Who is Sammy?"

"Sammy?" _What?_ "Where did you hear that name?"

The girl – Jill – smiles mischievously. "You said it. You know, when we were…" She waggles suggestively her eyebrows. "An ex?"

He chokes on his coffee. What the hell? It's a fact that even eight months after he left, Sam is still terribly present in everything Dean is doing but the mere idea that he could have said his _baby brother_' s name during sex is disturbing on so many levels that all Dean can do is just gasp at Jill, who finally takes pity on him:

"Hey, I'm kidding, I didn't think I would provoke such a reaction."

"What do you mean, you're kidding?

"I got up during the night to go to the bathroom, and when I opened the door, you mumbled something like 'Sammy, close the fucking door'. I thought that was funny, but maybe I shouldn't have…"

"No, it's okay, interrupts Dean. It's just that, one, Sammy's not a girl. And two, he's my kid brother…"

Jill burst out laughing, an infectious and cheerful laugh – Sam's when he's not busy brooding or butting heads with their father.

"Ah, really, I'm sorry! But I understand your reaction better."

"Yeah. But thinking about it, that you thought Sam was a girl, _that_ was kinda funny."

"How old is he?"

"Sam? Nineteen. He's in college. Stanford."

"Wow. That's impressive."

"And he got a full ride." He can't contain a half smile. "These people are _paying_ so he will study there. My baby bro's a fucking genius."

He doesn't know why he's telling her all this. It's not like he knows the girl, and he usually avoids talking about Sam, because it's way too painful – well, at the same time, it's not like a lot of people around him mention Sam; the kid could as well have fallen from the earth.

Maybe it's because he felt a real surge of pride, and for the first time, he thinks about his brother's admission to Stanford as something positive instead of the event that destroyed his family. He remembers that he's so, so proud of Sam, his brave, independent, stubborn little brother. Free, in a way Dean will never be – but it's okay, Dean has given everything for that. If he did one good thing in his life, it's to have helped raising Sam.

He would gladly keep talking about Sammy to this girl he knows nothing about except for her name, with his coffee getting cold between his hands, but he's interrupted by a ring he recognizes as his phone's. And like often lately, it's probably his dad calling, and not to talk about weather or the last Oprah's show.

He jumps out of the bed so fast he barely has the presence of mind to put his cup on the floor to avoid spilling coffee everywhere. While looking for his phone among the scattered clothes, he remembers why he allowed himself to drink that much last night: the Impala broke down, and his father gave him the night off, before leaving for Wisconsin to see if it was really a two-person job.

He doesn't check the caller before picking up, but he wasn't wrong.

"Dean, I want you to meet me tonight."

"The Impala is still at the garage."

"Take a flight. We'll get your car later. Don't worry about weapons, I know someone here that can supply us."

John Winchester's words are law, and Dean doesn't think twice before agreeing. _A flight? No trouble, sir._ He leaves Jill with a smile and a short kiss, none of the two having any illusions about the probability for them to meet again. Dean will finally never know for sure if she's a student or not.

He goes to the motel room he paid for but didn't stay more than an hour in, and gathers his things. He has to take the bus to reach the airport, and feels like he's doing something terribly sacrilegious; it's been a while since he has taken any vehicle other than the Impala. It's only when he is in the airport, when he buys his ticket that he realizes fully that he has never taken a plane in his life, and that he's not overjoyed by the perspective.

His palms are sweaty as he gets on the plane. The stewardess who welcomes him is quite good looking, green eyes, sweet face, and nice legs, but it leaves Dean cold. Once in his seat, he feels nauseous. His left leg is shaking nervously – he can't keep it still, like he has lost all control over it, something that didn't happened in years, since the time of his first real hunts.

When the plane takes off, he thinks for a minute that he's living his last moments. His hands grip the arms of his seat until his knuckles turn white, and he whispers all the curses he knows, some of which would make even his father blink. The guy next to him glares disapprovingly.

Then the engine stops shaking, and Dean makes the monumental mistake to look through the window.

Dean is not very fond of heights. It's not exactly an incontrollable phobia, he can suck it up if he has to, and it has never been much of a problem, but the fact is he likes solid ground a lot better. To say the plane is high would be understatement of the year – the plane is _fucking _high, and suspended in the emptiness by nothing Dean can see or touch.

_Oh, fuck. Oh God._

Not that God would be of a great help. If Dean believed in God, he'd see him as a bearded asshole sitting on a cloud, watching human beings uselessly moving around like ants whose anthill has been destroyed while eating popcorn. The vision is silly, and Sam would roll his eyes, but hey, Dean has seen stranger things.

Okay, calm down. Lots of people fly, and – most of them – make it out alive. If he doesn't look through the window, he can pretend they're on firm ground – almost. It takes a minute for him to be aware he's humming "Don't fear the Reaper" by the B.O.C.

_All our times have come, here but now there, gone, seasons don't fear the reaper…_

It's morbidly appropriate, he thinks, but it helps him to calm down. He regains control of his breathing, and his grip loosens on the seat's arms.

It would be easier if he could drive – pilot. He doesn't like very much his life being in the hands of some unknown guy. Still, he begins to think maybe he has a chance to make it out alive, when the engine starts to shake violently.

Seconds later, and it's over. Dean has bitten his tongue, and his nails have gone deep in the seat. Next to him, the man barely contains a smile. Bastard. Were they anywhere but in a plane suspended in nothing, Dean would kick his ass without breaking a sweat.

He's glad Sam isn't here to see this. Or maybe not. No matter how many times he tells himself it's a good thing Sam is not here, he never fully manages to believe it.

There are a few more bumps during the trip that seems very, very long to Dean – and he's used to driving sometimes ten hours in a row. When they finally land, he needs all his control not to rush outside.

His father is waiting for him outside the airport, leaning against his truck, hands in his pockets. Dean probably doesn't look so good, because he asks:

"Dean? You okay?"

It's somewhat humiliating to see that apparently it didn't crossed Dad's mind that his son could be shaken by his first flight. Dean comes up to his dad, puts a hand on his shoulder – leans a little, just the time to find his balance again – before speaking solemnly:

"Never, you hear me, I'm never getting on one of these damn things again. Under no circumstances. Okay?"

"Dean, what…"

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. Great." Dean takes a deep breath. "So, what're we hunting?"

---

It may not be possible to die of boredom, but it can definitely drive you mad, Dean decides, after so many hours of watching soap opera and dumb talk shows he barely remembers his own name, and not at all the name of the town he's staying in.

He's used to small towns, because for some reason supernatural beings like to hole up in the middle of nowhere, but No-fucking-where, Wyoming, seems to beat them all. Outside it's Indian summer in its last golden glory, and the sun of October is shining, as if to taunt Dean.

He moves a little on the bed, trying to relieve the ache in his arm that is becoming real pain, and he sighs. Painkillers are wearing out, but he doesn't want to take some more – he hates feeling dependant on the damn things. Instead, he's finishing the bottle of beer waiting on the bedside table, and even if he knows it's not good to mix meds and alcohol, well, nobody is here to lecture him after all. His father is in Illinois, or Indiana, one of the states in "i" anyway, and he called yesterday to make sure his first born still hasn't shot himself in the head.

He's now loathing the hideous brown pattern of the wallpaper so much he thinks that when he will finally be leaving, the last thing he'll do will be to set the motel on fire. And he has been stuck in this room barely a week, handicapped by his right arm, and only T.V for distraction. It's not the first time he is immobilized by a wound, but repetition never makes things easier, and this time, this time…

There's a reason why he's numbing himself with T.V, despite the risks of brain damage, and it is that in his situation, the alternative would be to think about the circumstances of his…let say accident – that's what he told doctors – and he'd rather not. It's funny how the most terrible things generally happen so fast – the rotten banister in this abandoned house – and haunted, of course – that breaks under his weight, and him falling downstairs. He was lucky, they told him, nothing but bruises of the size of Texas, a slight commotion, and a right arm in pieces, _but there are good chances that you will get back at least partial use of your arm._

_At least partial use_. He takes another sip of lukewarm disgusting beer. The world he lives in, it's all or nothing, there is no _partial use._ He can use his left arm well enough, but nothing equals the use of two arms. If he can't recover full use of his right arm, the hunt is over for him. As soon as he left hospital, he found himself locked up in this seedy room, and his father cleared from the place two days after, once he was convinced Dean would be okay by himself; since then he sleeps, eats, watches T.V, takes meds, and feels like he is contemplating how the rest of his life will be like.

He hesitates to call Sam. First, because he doesn't want to look like a pathetic whiner who needs comfort from his little brother. And it's usually Sam who calls, not the reverse, by this tacit agreement they have – they have dozens of them – since he left for college, two years ago. _Two years already, Jesus. A blink and an eternity._

He doesn't want to push his luck because their last conversations didn't go well, and he doesn't want to risk that Sam wouldn't talk to him anymore. It's his only link to his brother, that and the times Dad swings by California and comes back with a "Sammy is okay" and nothing else – Dean himself can't, he can't watch his brother from a distance and not go and talk to him, like some stalker, when if there is one thing he knows in his life, it's Sam.

It's all right and good, but today is the sixth day he's spending in the antechamber of hell, and all his common sense went through the window when compared to the idea of not feeling alone in the world anymore; he is aware of what he's doing only when the phone is pressed against his ear, and he's hearing the persistent _tut tut tut _of dial tone.

He stays like this for a moment, and is ready to hang up before he reaches voicemail, but he is stopped by Sam's "_Hello?"._

"_Dean? What do you want?"_

Damn it, his brother doesn't sound like he is in a good mood.

"Sam, hum, …" he begins eloquently.

He really wants to hang up, but Sam wouldn't find it funny. He knows he can't tell the reason of his call, can't talk about his wound, and about the possibility that he stays crippled. He has quickly realized that it's better if Sam ignores the moments he is hurt or sick, because then he starts freaking out, but as there is nothing he can do hundred or thousand miles away, his worry mutates in anger, and dishes are flying – metaphorically speaking.

"_What is it, Dean? I don't have all day, man. I have this essay to finish, and I'm a bit late."_

"A bit late for homework?" jokes Dean. "Who are you and what have you done to my brother?"

"_Ha ha, very funny. No, seriously, Dean."_

Sam pronounces his name with this way of his, like he could, by sheer strength of will, make it have more syllables than one.

"I need a reason to call my kid brother?"

"_You never call."_

Dean feels an irritate feeling build up, and tries to contain it, but really, it's rich coming from Sam, because it's _him_ who didn't want Dean to call, even if it's true he never said it that way.

"_Dean, what's the matter?" _Then, with concern: _"Is something wrong? Dean? Dean!"_

The conversation is clearly going the wrong way, he can feel it, and he should hang up right now, but pain is clouding his judgment – he regrets he didn't take the damn painkillers, now.

"There's nothing wrong, Sam, everything is okay. I'm bored, that's all. What is your essay about?"

"_You're bored? No hunt? Where's Dad?"_

Dean stiffens. He doesn't get why every time they talk, Sam feels the need to ask where their Dad is, generally to reproach to him for something the next moment. He doesn't want to engage this way with Sam again, so he ignores the question, which, he should have remembered, is always a tactical mistake when speaking to his brother.

"So, what're you working on?"

"_You kidding me? What I'm doing doesn't really interest you."_

"Sure it does!"

"_No. You're changing the subject. Where's Dad? What did he do this time?"_

"Stop right there, Sam" Dean warns, deadly calm, but not for long. "I'm sure you don't want to go further on the subject."

That, of course, is only giving his brother more ammunition.

"_I was sure there was a problem! What's going on?"_

"Nothing is wrong, Sam." He's a little sick of repeating himself.

"_Nothing's wrong? So you're calling just to know what I'm working on?"_

"For instance, to know what you're doing. To have some news, hell, it's not like you were calling that often."

"_You're not interested in what I study. You barely finished high school, what I do could be Greek to you."_

"And what does that's supposed to mean? I'm too dumb, that's it?"

"_I didn't mean it like that. You know, I don't get why you're defending him all the time."_

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"_You never protest! So he thinks he can get out with anything_."

"How come we're talking about Dad, now? How come every time we talk you're using me to spit your venom about him? If Hitler hadn't existed, you'd make Dad responsible for World War II!"

"_And for you he's the Creator in person! But he's just a man, he's not perfect!"_

"No, because you got the monopole of perfection! You go to college, and now you're better than anyone else!"

"_At least, _I _see beyond the aspirations of a revenge-obsessed loser!"_

Dean doesn't know how they came to screaming at each other through the phone. It's like all of a sudden, he doesn't have any control on what he's saying, like someone else was speaking through him, like he was possessed or something. None of their previous fights can compare to this one, even if the topics aren't new. It's like the Fight between Sam and their dad, minus the objects flying through the room, except this time, it's between him and Sam. Him and _Sam._

Finally, after an infinitely long time or surprisingly short, Sam whispers with a voice raw with screaming, "_I think we have nothing to say to each other anymore," _and hang up without giving Dean the time to answer anything. Dean shuts his phone, throws it violently against the wall. The gesture echoes in his body, and pain makes him grit his teeth.

He gets up and leaves the room, even if outside twilight is cooling the air. He locks himself up in his car, because that all the comfort he has left, even if can't drive in his state. He switches on the ignition, grabs the first tape that he finds, and slips it into the cassette player. Metallica fills the interior.

_So close, no matter how far, couldn't be much more from the heart, forever trusting who we are, and nothing else matters…_

He rests his forehead on the wheel, lets the music overwhelm him, then raises his head, and hit it against the wheel once, twice, harder and harder until he's sure to let a bruise, trying to quiet the sobs that threaten to strangle him.

…_never cared for what they do, never cared for what they know, but I know…_

He had his doubts for a while, but now he's sure. Sam doesn't want to have anything to do with him anymore. They could as well live on different planets. And maybe it's better this way, better for Sam at least, but _fucking _Christ it hurts, it hurts worse than his wounded arm.

But if it is what Sam wants, it'll be what he gets, because Dean could never deny anything to his brother – his father gave him enough shit about it. If it is what Sam wants…

…_forever trusting who we are, no, nothing else matters._

_---_

… _big flames, of a fiery orange, and it's hot, very hot, like he was in an oven. Daddy is in the hallway, with Sammy crying in his arms. Dean doesn't see Mommy anywhere._

"_Daddy" calls Dean, now utterly terrified. He'd like a lot for everything to be a nightmare._

_Daddy rushes to Dean, and puts hurriedly Sammy in his arms. The baby is heavy, warm against his chest, and his fine hair tickles his chin._

"_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Go, Dean, now!"_

_Dean wants to know why he can't look back and he wants also to ask 'Where is Mommy?', but he recognized Daddy's tone, the one he doesn't use often but that means it's very important, and that Dean absolutely has to do what he's told._

_So he runs toward the stairs, his little brother hugged tightly against him…_

_---_

When his father suggests – orders – that he does his first solo hunt, Dean can't help but suspect it's to shake him out of the depressed state he's been in lately.

It's a very unusual thing for Dad to do, so Dean is not sure he's not imagining it. Not that he thinks his dad doesn't care about him, but John Winchester has never been much of a psychologist – if he had, he could have avoided many fights with Sam; he also could have avoided being thrown out of Bobby Singer's under the threat of a shotgun.

Anyway, it's a fact that since Cassie broke up with him, Dean finds it hard to put his mind into anything, even hunting – and thinking about it, it's probably his lack of passion for business that caught Dad's attention.

He didn't tell his father about Cassie Robinson – not that he was dating her, and not that they broke up – because he doesn't see his Dad approving of him being involved with someone in the middle of a hunt. He maybe – _maybe – _would have told Sam had his brother been here, but the thing is he isn't – and everything always comes down to that, in one way or another.

Revealing the truth about his family to Cassie had probably been the biggest mistake of his life, and since that day he kept blaming himself for his stupidity – that he was naïve enough to believe that because she may have had some feelings about him, she would accept what he was telling her. He forgot that they didn't belong to the same world. One thing is sure, no one will catch him doing that again.

Telling himself that doesn't help him to feel better. But his father throwing him the newspaper saying, "You'll have a look at this. I trust you to take care of the case by yourself. I have something to do in Indiana. You call me as soon as you are finished," - _that _fills him with absurd pride.

He had been trusted with a few tasks before, but never without any supervision from Dad. So this solo hunt represents his father seeing him as man capable of managing on his own, a competent hunter – an _equal._

That's how he finds himself behind the Impala's wheel driving toward Spring Valley, Minnesota, overexcited like a kid on the eve of his birthday – and maybe just a little anxious. He's firmly decided on not making any blunder, and on showing himself worthy of his father's trust.

Spring Valley is a small rural town in southern Minnesota, with its share of farms, trees, and more space that anyone would need – and as it is winter, everything is covered in snow. Dean doesn't like cold that much, but he refuses to let this detail dampen his enthusiasm. Surfing on the net to learn a bit more about the place, Dean finds out that Spring Valley is also, incidentally, the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the _Little House in The Prairie, _and he feels twinge of sadness when he thinks that it's exactly the kind of detail he doesn't give a shit about, but that would catch Sam's attention – the kid always had weird interests.

The case he's busy with begins – for him – by the discovery of a torn body, a few weeks before, on the land of an abandoned farm, outside town. The farm belonged to Harold McCoy, a taciturn loner who disappeared fifty years ago without anyone ever knowing what happened to him, and it has been unoccupied since then. The place has seen strange deaths and unexplained disappearances, to the point that the locals avoid wandering near there, and rumors call it haunted or cursed – a wise attitude, according to Dean. But apparently, the poor bastard that had been torn to shreds didn't get the memo.

In retrospect, Dean will have troubles putting his finger on the exact moment when everything goes to hell.

Maybe when he goes to explore the farm with the conviction that it's the spirit of good old Harold, dead in unknown circumstances, and back to haunt this world of misery. At this moment, his idea is to go through the place with the EMF to confirm his hypothesis – by day, to limit the probability of an attack – find the guy's body, salt, burn, and that's it.

Probably when he stumbles on a group of runaway teenagers that took refuge on the main building. There're three of them, two girls and one boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen – _almost Sam's age when he left –_ with their backpacks, huddled against each other, watching him with huge eyes. They obviously didn't expect anyone to find them here.

Definitely when he catches sight of a furtive figure, shoots it with rock salt, and receives in answer some kind of growl, before the figure disappears behind a door. In any case, that is the moment he understands he fucked up good.

His hypothesis seemed valid enough, though. The wounds on the body could have been from some kind of animal, but a werewolf would have ripped the heart out, wouldn't have killed outside the periods of full moon anyway, a Wendigo wouldn't have left a body – whereas spirits can kill in all kind of fulfilling ways. The territorial localization of the incidents, the fact that there were nothing to report before McCoy's disappearance… everything made Dean think about a spirit protecting itself against intruders in death the way he did in life.

_Lesson of the day: the most simple hypothesis is not always the best; and when it isn't, it always comes back to bite you in the ass. Fucking razor of Occam._

He's now faced with two major problems: first, he doesn't have the good weapons with him, his prey is corporal, and rock salt would only trigger his aggressiveness. He does have his usual Colt on him, but it's loaded with ordinary bullets. Whatever the thing he's fighting is, Dean doubts it would be enough. In itself, it's not too much trouble: he parked the Impala in the main courtyard, and all his weapons are locked in the trunk.

There comes his second problem: he's got a bunch of civilians on his arms, and they now see him as a triggered-happy lunatic.

Obviously, they didn't see the figure Dean has been shooting, because they're watching _him_ with terror in their eyes. The two girls are huddled against each other, and have instinctively taken a step back; the boy is staring at the end of Dean's shotgun with his mouth open.

"Are you crazy?" he babbles. Then his eyes narrow, and he suddenly looks more intrigued than anything else. "What did you shoot it with?"

_Well, fuck me. The kid is observant. _

"Rock salt" he answers tersely. "It repels spirits, but apparently the thing that's killing people here is not a spirit."

It's not fair, to throw that into their face that way, but Dean doesn't have the time to sugarcoat it, or even to be convincing. He knows that things can go to hell in no time, and the mere thought makes him clench his teeth.

"Spirits?" repeats the boy. "But what… who the hell are…"

"Listen," Dean interrupts abruptly. He feels like he's just about to lose his calm, and he can't allow himself that. But he always had troubles dealing with civilians, and on top of that the kid makes him think a little about Sam, and that's far from making things easy.

_But Sam isn't stupid enough to wander in a notoriously haunted place, where someone has been found dead just weeks ago. No, Sam is safe, and having a good time. Well, knowing Sam, he's got his nose buried in books. But safe. And nothing else matters, does it?_

"Listen" he carries on, "You have to get the hell out of here. Right now. It's dangerous."

"For the moment, you're the one who looks dangerous." the kid replies, but he sounds more cheeky than scared, and Dean has to admit he has a point. He can't help smiling a little, because this boy really reminds him of his little brother, and he still misses Sammy so much, even after three years of being apart.

"So you're ready to leave if I ask you nicely?"

He eventually convinces them to go out in the courtyard, and maybe the shotgun he's holding in his hands has something to do with it. His plan is simple: he evacuates the civilians with the Impala, then he comes back armed to the teeth to take care of the son of a bitch lurking in the dark corners of the old farm.

Simple, isn't it? He should have remembered that there're some moments when everything that can go wrong just does.

"Holy fuck!!"

The teenagers are jumping, and he remembers he still has a loaded shotgun in his hands. But right now, he doesn't feel like being careful with three _dumb _kids that had the genius idea to wander on the field of his first solo hunt. _Damn it! And I'm freezing my ass off!_

He turns around the Impala, to confirm what he thinks: the car does have all four tires punctured; so he can't use her to get out of here, and in top of that, he'll have to bring her to a mechanic, and he _hates _that.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry", he whispers, petting fondly the black hood.

But even if he's furious that something _dared _touching his car, he knows that's not the worst of it. The act of vandalism on the Impala means two things, and none is cheerful: it's the proof that this creature is intelligent, and consequently more difficult to hunt; and it definitely ruins Dean's idea that the murders were only defensive – if the creature only wanted them to leave, it wouldn't have sabotaged their only means of transport; it want them dead, then. Too bad, because Dean kind of like being alive.

The kids are staring at him, and Dean sighs. Were he on his own, the situation wouldn't be half as worrying. If he walks them off the property, he fears that it'd let far too much time for the creature to ambush them – maybe that's what it's waiting for, and the thought puts Dean in a cold sweat. He can't leave them somewhere while he's hunting, either; no place would be safe enough, especially when he ignores where the danger is. Only one option remains: to bring them along with him, and he doesn't like that one very much.

He turns around to face them, lowers his shotgun in order to look less threatening, and takes a deep breath.

"So, here's the situation", he begins, spontaneously adopting his 'no argument' voice, the one he used with Sam – not that it has ever be very efficient with the damn kid. "There's something in this farm, something that's killing people. And this thing has just messed with my car, so I figure it doesn't want us any good. I'm gonna kill it, but I need to be sure it won't hurt you, so you're coming with me." He raises a hand to prevent any objection."Maybe you're thinking I'm crazy, but you must know what happened here. The guy who died some weeks ago didn't break his neck falling down the stairs. To follow me and to do just what I tell you will probably be the most clever thing you've ever done in your life."

Sam told him once that he could sometimes be quite scary to the eyes of people who didn't know him. Maybe it's true, and when the teenagers agree, he doesn't know if they do because they're afraid of him or because they trust him, but he doesn't care – sometimes, only the result matters. He opens the Impala's trunk to take the proper equipment. He leaves his shotgun loaded with rock salt, useless, and starts to gather everything he can carry and still move freely enough. He puts silver bullets in his Colt, in case he were dealing with some kind of shifter, and after a pause for thought, he adds a machete to his arsenal; as the boy scout he's never been, he likes to be ready for any situation, and few things can survive without their head.

"Show time", he mutters, before heading to the main building, the teenagers close behind him.

The events that follow won't leave a whole lot of memories, but anyway, he'll be very happy that he brought the machete.

He'll remember the screams full of terrors from coming from the kids; the strength and the lightening speed of his prey; its big yellow eyes with pupils like a cat, and this moment of sheer lucidity when he knew he was going to die. If he saw his whole life flash before his eyes or some shit like that, he doesn't keep any memory of it. But he remembers well thinking two things:

_Dad's gonna be so pissed that I screwed up my solo hunt._

Then:

_If I die here, I'll never see Sam again._

With the life he leads, Dean is no stranger to freak adrenaline things, and the incredible actions they can make you accomplish, but the prompt decapitation of the creature that was going to kill him under the eyes of three petrified teenagers will probably always remain in his top three.

The thing falls, its head rolls on the floor, and Dean lets himself slide against the wall, feeling suddenly empty, his hand gripping the machete's handle so hard that he worries that it will stay encrusted in his palm. He stares at the body in front of him, a corpse with characteristics suspiciously human, and he wonders what the hell this thing was. Was it human once, like a Wendigo? If it was, what caused its transformation? Could it be Harold McCoy himself, or just the thing that killed him? Dean finally decides to leave the questions to people who can be bothered with them. As far as he's concerned, he's done his job: he killed the son of a bitch, and kept it from hurting anyone else.

He pushes himself up with difficulty, and one of the girls, a red head with short hair, kind of cute now that he thinks about it, points out shyly: "You're hurt. You're bleeding."

Dean looks down, and notices with indifference that his left sleeve is torn and soaked with blood, running down his wrist and dripping on the floor.

"Well, shit. My jacket is ruined. One of you has a handkerchief?"

The same girl gives him one, and he uses it for a makeshift bandage. The girl hesitates a moment, then asks: " That thing… is it really dead?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna make sure."

The kids are looking at him, confused, while he salts and burns the body – well, the two dissociated parts of the body. The creature looks dead, but as a hunter, Dean knows that what is dead isn't always nice enough to stay that way, and you're never too careful. Like Dad always says:_ A hunter who doesn't always make sure his prey is neutralized, is a dead hunter, even if doesn't know it yet. _His father has a lot of other nice maxims like that.

After that, what follows is pretty anecdotal. Dean really wants to lie down and sleep 48 hours in a row, but after you kicked the bad guy's ass, there're always plenty of little things that need being taken care of. To call a tow truck for his baby – and to ignore the curious glances from the guy who's wondering what the fuck he was doing here. To make sure the runaway teenagers make it home sound and safe, after a good lecture on the danger of wandering in notoriously haunted places. To go back to the motel, dress his wound properly; call his dad and tell him about his hunt in details, describing the creature so he can write everything in his journal.

And when he can finally lie down on his bed, he realizes that despite his exhaustion, he's not able to sleep. He doesn't know if it's the blood loss, the tiredness, the after-effects of the adrenalin rush, but he feels sad and lonely, and not satisfied and triumphant like he should after a successful hunt; any presence would be welcome, but more than anything, like often when he's tired and depressed, he wants to hear his brother's voice, so much it almost physically hurts.

It's far from being a good idea, for many reasons, but maybe Dean is a masochist or merely an idiot, because he gets on his feet to look into his jacket's pocket for his phone. Outside it's beginning to snow, and it's dark; Dean thinks he's really glad to be inside where it's relatively warm. When he finds his cell phone, he goes back to the bed to lie – he feels lightheaded, and he doesn't want to fall without anyone to pick him up.

He doesn't do much more than looking dumbly to the phone, finally. Sam and he have separated lives now, incompatible lives apparently, and Dean doesn't feel well enough to face his brother's rejection.

It's a last look to his phone's screen, to the date on it, that makes him realize that it is Christmas.

---

Dean's hands clench and unclench on his beloved car's wheel, a sign both of nervousness and excitement.

"We're gonna see Sam again, baby. You too, you're looking forward to it, aren't you?" He pets fondly the wheel.

Then he chuckles, because he's a guy talking to his car, but he's perfectly sane, thank you very much. He's aware of his slightly euphoric state, and maybe the whisky he drank before leaving has something to do with it. It's not in his habit to drink before driving, but he could never have taken the decision to pull Sam out of his dream life if he has been fully sober.

He feels a lot better now that he has decided that. Three weeks without any word from his father, and it was driving him crazy, until he received Dad's cryptic message, and thought: _"That's enough. The hell with orders." _He thought about how Sam would appreciate the surge of rebellion, and then, just like that, the idea of asking his brother's help was insidiously creeping into his mind.

Once it's settled, the idea doesn't want to leave. This unique occasion to make up with Sam, and maybe – one can dream – having his brother and father talking to each other again, it's too tempting. And Dean is more than fed up of being alone, of being the one left on the side of the road like a bundle of dirty laundry, he finally gets that if he wants his family whole again, he has to take the matter in his own hands, because one can count only on himself.

That's how he finds himself on the road, driving toward Palo Alto, California, euphoric with alcohol and the perspective of seeing Sam again. He doesn't even worry as much for his father, because he's convinced that as soon as he'll have Sam by his side, every problem will solve itself. But the closer he is to California, the effects of alcohol wearing out, the more his optimism weakens. And if Sammy refuses to come with him? Dean knows his little brother can bear a grudge – why do Dad and him have to be so similar in their flaws? – and he's probably not going to want to leave everything to search for the father that slammed the door behind him.

Dean parks the Impala near the building where Sam is living, and looks up to the windows he knows is Sam's apartment. He takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly, and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He feels a mix of excitement and apprehension that is strangely similar to his state of mind before a hunt.

If Dean can't convince Sam to leave for Dad, then he'll have to convince him to do it for Dean. Dean has always been a bit of a gambler, but it's the foundations of his whole existence that are at stake. If Sam is too angry with him, or worse, too indifferent, and rejects him, Dean doesn't know if he'll be able to bear it. All the time they were not talking, he could convince himself that it was because of pride and stubbornness – two things so _Winchester _that they should create their own label – and not because Sam really didn't want to have anything to do with him. But now the time has come to get his head out of the sand. _It's double or nothing. That's how you're usually like to play, aren't you? So stop shaking like a little girl, get your shit together, and go into his fucking apartment!_

That's the plan. Dean didn't phone because he feared his brother wouldn't pick up. It's the middle of the night, and even if Sam was opening the door, Dean doesn't want to give him the chance to slam it before he could say a word. So he's going to break into the apartment. When he is inside, Sam will have to talk to him before throwing him out. Simple, efficient. To anyone, this way of proceeding would seem dubious, but to Dean the concept of private property is kind of vague.

Breaking into Sam's apartment is so easy that Dean is ashamed for him. He doesn't really try to be quiet, because being noticed is the point. He's curious to see how long he'll have to wait before Sam…

He feels more than he sees the attack coming. If he didn't already know that it could only be Sam – he's in Sam's apartment, so who else? – he would still have recognized his brother by his way of moving. He frees himself from the arm that tries to strangle him, and turns around to hit without any hesitation. He's kind of proud of his little brother's sharp and accurate attacks despite the darkness. Obviously, Sam can still hold his own, and it's a good sign. However, as Dean is the eldest, he's naturally the one who pins Sam down to the ground.

He holds him long enough to see recognition in the kid's eyes. Sam's exclamations, surprised, then pissed, makes him laugh, and he holds him a little longer that is necessary because _damn, _it's so good to feel his brother solid presence after all these years. Well, until the little bitch switches their positions with a brutal move of the leg. In the darkness Dean can distinguish Sam's face above him, and he recognizes the fierce look on his brother, that tells him that underneath the kindness and the compassion, Sam is far more dangerous than he looks.

Dean finally pushes Sam away, who gets up and reaches out to him, so naturally that Dean feels a twinge of hope. He takes Sam's hand, gets himself up in one swift motion, and – wow, was Sam that tall the last time he saw him? If he needed the evidence that there's no justice in life, that would be to see that his little brother now has a few good inches on him.

That's the moment Sam's girlfriend chooses to join them, and then the situation becomes a tiny bit awkward. The girl, Jess – _totally hot, by the way, well done, little bro! –_ is obviously embarrassed, Sam is annoyed, and Dean doesn't let anything faze him, greeting her in a way that may be too seductive, because he doesn't know how to behave differently with a pretty girl – especially when she doesn't have a whole lot of clothes on her – and because he's never been confronted with the problem of _how do you act with the girl sleeping with your brother. _They didn't teach _that _in school.

Sam is as much a bitch as he remembers, the kind of person who'd rather die than make things easy, and _really, _that shouldn't feel so comforting and familiar, but it does. By some carefully chosen words, he manages to make his stubborn brother understand the need for a private conversation, and they leave the pretty blonde standing there to go and talk outside.

And as expected, as soon as the subject of their father comes up, Sam is indignant, exasperated, angry, complaining as usual about how Dad didn't raise them the way he should have, denied them a normal childhood – _blah, blah, blah, stop playing the broken record, Sammy –_ and even if Dean is not surprised, it's his turn to be exasperated. Because he loves his brother, loves him so much that it sometimes scares him a little, but nobody can infuriate him like Sammy.

The only thing that remains is his trump card, and if it doesn't work, Dean will just have to leave, dejected. Sam has those damn puppy-dog eyes, and knows that Dean can't resist to them, but still he doesn't have the monopoly on emotional manipulation, because to be brothers is also that. Dean knows what buttons to push to make his sibling yield – Sam never could resist to the idea of his big brother needing him. But he bases himself on four-years-old facts; for his plan to work, Sam has to still care about him a little. _I think it's time to toss the dices…_

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes you can."

He makes a pause, looks away, tries his best to look vulnerable – and that's not has hard as it should. He feels like time is slowing, and his heart pounds louder, because something crucial is at stake, more than Sam is aware.

"Well, I don't want to."

Sam sighs, lowers his head, bites his lip, and Dean knows who the winner is even before Sam is asking: "What was he hunting?". He can breathe again – it's stupid, but it's like during all these years, he has just been killing time waiting for that moment to come.

So, yeah, Dad is missing, and Dean's instinct, rarely wrong, tells him that it's serious this time – _deadly _serious – Sam is a student with exactly the life he wanted, a very hot girlfriend, and probably no room for his asocial freak of a brother, but at this very moment, life is just perfect.

---

… _feeling the heat of flames in his back. The stairs are a bit high for him, and he usually holds the handrail to go downstairs, but right now his arms are full with Sammy, who is gripping Dean's pajamas with his tiny fist, so he has to concentrate not to fall._

_He's never held his brother in his arms without sitting down and without Mommy or Daddy by his side, so he's terrified of doing something wrong, because he has been told over and over how much babies are fragile. He remembers Mommy insisted a lot that Dean hold the head, explaining to him that Sammy is too little to hold it on his own. He's suddenly afraid that his little brother's head is going to fall and roll down the stairs, so he moves his arm to place it just under Sam's round head._

_When he finally arrives at the bottom of the stairs, his heart is pounding loudly, and his arms are tired by the weight of his burden, but he's running a little faster toward the front door. Fortunately, the handle is low, and he is able to reach it and to keep holding Sammy. The door opens…_

---

It's Christmas. Christmas 2007, the last Christmas he's spending on Earth, and it's snowing – _finally –_ sure sign that the Winchester brothers actually kicked the asses of two pagan gods with a kink for bondage.

And when Dean comes back to the room that is their home at least for tonight, it's to find his not-so-little brother standing in the middle of the room, a big smile on his face like an advertisement for toothpaste, and some improvised Christmas decorations. Sam is trying so hard it hurts.

Then, there's the moment when they exchange presents. _Ah, the presents. Santa really did give it his all, this year, didn't he, Sammy?_

Dean is laughing as he watches his brother's overplayed shows of pleasure when he unwraps his presents. It's less funny when he notices the tears in his younger sibling's eyes. Sam has this look he sometimes gets lately, the one heavy with emotions – love, and regret, and grief, plus something fierce and protective that makes the big brother in Dean want to rebel – and he's about to declare something, probably awfully embarrassing.

Fortunately, he changes his mind and suggests they watch the game. Neither he or Dean especially enjoy football, but that's not the point, and they both know it. So they stare at the screen, Dean in the armchair and Sam in the couch, and they pretend to be engrossed in some guys running on a football field. Dean feels the furtive glances Sam keeps throwing him. It's touching and annoying at the same time – like about everything Sam does in general.

The game isn't very interesting, but they do silly comments and laugh themselves sick, the way they did when they were kids, nothing but them in the world and the sheer pleasure of being together. All in all, it's the best Christmas Dean had for a long time. Sam tries again to say something a few times, but he never goes all the way, and Dean is a bit ashamed to feel relieved.

He has been thinking about a few things, lately, more and more as the end of his time is closer, like the last meal he'll have, the last woman he'll fuck, the last thing he'll say to Sam, even the clothes he'll wear when the hellhounds will come for him. It's the perk of knowing the exact day you're going to die, you can put your affairs in order, and everything. It would even be almost perfect, if it wasn't for this little, _little _detail.

Because Dean has another privilege on the common mortal, in that he knows what is going to happen to him after his death. And even if Dean is not afraid of dying, even if he prepared himself for it a long time ago, and that sacrificing himself for Sam is the best death he can wish for, the perspective of eternal torture has decidedly nothing attractive. But, well, it's for Sam, for _Sam, _and Dean has never needed a better reason, so he'll clench his teeth and will welcome the fucking dogs with his arms open.

They fall asleep with the T.V. on, slightly drunk because of Sam strong eggnog. When Dean wakes up, it's still dark outside, but as it is the longest night of the year, it could well be seven or eight o'clock. The T.V. is still on, Sam is huddled on the couch, as comfortably as his long limbs allow, his head turned toward the skinny Christmas tree. Dean thinks his brother is asleep, until a long shaky sigh escapes from him, and then, like a kick in the stomach, Dean realizes that Sam is crying.

Dean stays still for a moment, not quite certain about what he should do. Does he let Sam know he's awake or not? Does he try to comfort him – and expose himself to a _really _awkward scene? Or does he act like nothing was wrong until the kid calms down? Sam closes the matter when he realizes he's being watched, and wipes away his tears hurriedly with the back of his hand, face flushed with embarrassment.

The silence is uncomfortable for a few long minutes. Emotions rise inside Dean, more and more out of control, there's a huge lump in his throat – and wouldn't that be the last straw if _he_ started to cry, too? He thinks that if it's possible to love more than he does, more than he loves Sam, then it's no surprise human race is doing so bad, because right now he feels like he could turn the world into a bloodbath just to make the despair on his little brother's face disappear. Of course, there's the fact that _he'_s the one responsible for that despair and he's twisted enough to appreciate the irony.

His world is reduced to Sam now, not that it has ever been really much larger. It's probably not very healthy, or very normal, but Dean has never stopped for this kind of consideration. What scares him, is the thought that _Sam'_s world could be reduced to Dean, because Sam has always wanted more, larger, richer, fuller. Dean has often resented it, but now it feels wrong, because he knows he is a poor substitute to Sam's past ambition, and because he doesn't want to believe that he will destroy his brother when he dies. Because _that _was totally not the plan.

It's Sam who breaks silence first.

"Sleep well?" he asks with fake nonchalance, his voice a little hoarse.

Dean gets the message. Sam is setting the tone, it will be '_We're going to manly ignore the elephant in the room', _and it's perfect as far as Dean is concerned. Maybe Sam is finally becoming a man – and that would be about time, Dean would say if someone bothered to ask.

"My neck is stiff", he answers the same way, massaging his neck with ostentation. "I'm getting to old to spend the night on an armchair.'

Sam smiles, and Dean is bothered by the tenderness in this smile, almost blinding – he has to look away for a moment, as if it was an indecent thing to witness, when he is the one the feeling is directed to. For a guy who didn't want to do anything special, his brother seems pretty intoxicated by the Christmas spirit, but he has to admit that it's a nice change from Sam bitter and perpetually angry, the way he has been for months.

"I feel your pain. Some eggnog, grandpa?"

Dean rises an eyebrow, meaning '_Show a little respect to your elders, kiddo', _and he has a disgusted pout.

"You're hilarious, but no thank you, I'll pass. This stuff is pretty disgusting, you know. Not surprising we're only supposed to drink it once a year.

"You ungrateful jerk. I busted my ass trying to make a decent Christmas for you in only a few hours. With a tree, and everything."

"Ah, Sammy, Sammy. Don't get your panties in a twist, decoration is perfect. A real little homemaker. But I think something is missing to, you know, really feel the spirit."

"What?" Sam asks, half amused, half suspicious.

"A wreath of meadowsweet. I heard it was just lovely."

Sam's laugh – light, warm, vibrant – is unquestionably the most wonderful sound in the world.

---

… _and the cool air strikes Dean after the heat of fire. He rushes outside as fast as he can, then turns to face the house, staring at the flames that escape from the windows._

"_Daddy and Mommy are coming," he repeats to himself. "Daddy and Mommy…"_

_Sammy whimpers and wriggles in his arms, and Dean thinks that if he's scared, Sammy must be much more scared, because he's very little, so little he can't walk, can't eat, can't do anything on his own without Mommy or Daddy's help. He's just a baby. But Daddy and Mommy are not here – not yet – and there's only Dean left to comfort his baby brother._

"_It's okay, Sammy," he whispers soothingly, the way he saw Mommy do._

_When the baby calms down and looks up at him with his big dark eyes, Dean feels a little appeased, strangely comforted by the little life he's holding in his arms; a new strength, that he doesn't quite understand, but that allows him to hold in his tears._

_Even if he's not sure he believes his own words._

_---_

A/N: _I wrote a companion piece to this fic, from Sam's POV - it's called "Somewhere Along The Way". I don't know when I'll have the time or the courage to translate it, but I will, because the two fics really complete each other. In the meantime, if you read French, you can always go and look for it on my profile^^_


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